


In a Foreign Field

by minkhollow



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: April Showers Challenge, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-14
Updated: 2004-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:08:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minkhollow/pseuds/minkhollow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley and Aziraphale are sent to Ankh-Morpork for a spot of business.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Business Trip

**Author's Note:**

> A pair of fics written on requests in 2004; I'm posting them together here (under a new collective title) for the sake of completeness.  
> Still not Gaiman or Pratchett.

“We aren’t intending to stay long, your Lordship. We have some business to attend to that ought to be taken care of by the end of the week, and then we’ll be on our way.”

Lord Vetinari scrutinized the pair of foreign guild representatives seated on the other side of his desk. The one who had done most of the talking so far was clearly an assassin, dressed to the eights in black and even sporting a pair of dark glasses. The other had claimed affiliation with the Historians’ Guild, when asked.

“Your aim for efficiency is certainly admirable, gentlemen,” he finally said, “but I cannot avoid noticing that this is a... rather unusual guild alliance. Might I inquire as to the occasion?”

“Our superiors didn’t explain the reasons behind this,” the assassin said. “We were only given enough information to get here and get the job done.”

“I see.” He began perusing a stack of paperwork. “Do not let me detain you.”

***

“I still don’t understand why you wouldn’t let me bring the Bentley.”

“It’s a matter of blending in, my dear. These people don’t have automobiles at all yet. And besides, you know how those things ruin the air quality.”

“A few cars would probably _improve_ the air quality of this bloody city. It’s all very well for you - your nose has shut down in self-defense by now, I’d wager. I can’t get the taste of it out of my mouth.”

“We shouldn’t be here long. You said so yourself.”

“Good. There’s nothing for me to do here. They’ve done it all themselves - I’m blending in by claiming to be an _assassin_ , for... someone’s sake!”

“Do stop complaining, Crowley.”


	2. Collector's Item

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale finds himself entangled in a second arrangement.

Crowley returned to London at the first available opportunity, grumbling about how he'd probably have to spend the next decade or so gargling hydrochloric acid. Aziraphale had intended to follow suit soon after, but made the mistake of purchasing a newspaper and finding reason to stay in Ankh-Morpork for a few more days.

It was five months before Crowley came back and more or less dragged the angel back to his bookstore. Aziraphale tried to keep tabs on the city (in the name of staying on top of foreign affairs), but couldn't let himself go back for fear of forgetting to leave again. It wasn't working out very well until the day the cat turned up.

He had just finished making his tea for the day when someone behind him said, "Pretty impressive collection of books you have here."

"Thank you," he replied automatically, then stopped. Whoever had spoken clearly was not Crowley, and he hadn't heard the front door open. He turned around, half expecting to find someone who wanted to talk him out of the shop, and didn't see anyone.

"No, I'm down _here_. You people are all alike in that regard. If the voice isn't at your eye level, it's not worth paying attention to."

"Er." Nothing in six thousand years had quite prepared Aziraphale for the experience of being cut down to size by a cat.*

"Like I was saying," the cat continued, "you seem to like giving books a good home. I don't suppose you'd mind a donation to your collection? The rats are looking to get rid of this, and I don't know where else to take it." He got up and stretched, revealing that he had been sitting on the book in question.

It had clearly seen better days, and Aziraphale absent-mindedly restored the thin volume to mint condition as he flipped through it. "I don't normally take children's books," he finally said, opting not to ask about the rats.

"But it's a rare volume. Only copy on this planet, I'd imagine."

"Well, thank you again. And you're certain you don't want anything in return, er..." He trailed off, realizing that calling this cat 'kitty' or anything similar would likely be a big mistake.

"The name's Maurice. And no, not as such. Can't stay here long, I have things to get back to in Ankh-Morpork."

Aziraphale nearly dropped the book at the sound of the city's name. "Oh, dear. Has anything... interesting happened there recently?"

Maurice arched his back again. "I don't know," he replied, as carelessly as he could manage. "Have you got any cream you could spare for a poor street cat?"

By the time Maurice left, Aziraphale found himself caught up in another arrangement.

*A talking cat, at any rate. Nonverbal cats cut people down to size all the time, regardless of any occult or ethereal nature.


End file.
